Witch Island (26 page)

Then Jim felt immense pressure in his chest, as if he’d run into a brick wall. His forward progress was halted, and he was shoved backward by a powerful force. His feet flew out from under him. The breath was gone from his lungs. He crashed to the ground.

Jim couldn’t move. He coughed up blood, the coppery-tasting fluid filling his palate. Something had gone terribly wrong. Pain was now radiating through him. He wanted to get up, but it felt like a car had been dropped on him.

Maybe the witch had done something, gotten through the ring’s defense. Was she inside him? He didn’t feel the heat like Darren and Melinda had. In fact, he felt the opposite—cold. It was summer, and warm out. So why did it feel like air-conditioning?

Staring up at the night sky, he saw a face come into view. It was one of the sheriff’s deputies. Jim’s mind sorted through the possibilities of what had gone wrong, and then he knew. He’d been shot. He didn’t know how badly, but it was sure getting colder by the second. He hoped Gwen was okay.

And then he knew no more.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Gwen heard the cop’s voice before he came into view. She turned and saw not one, but two deputies. Both had their guns drawn and pointed at Jim. They seemed to have come out of nowhere, like wraiths from the darkness.

Jim didn’t stop. He kept charging toward the sheriff. She had no idea if he had heard them or not, but he was going to finish the job. They were going to protect their boss. She screamed at Jim to stop.

The sound of gunfire erupted. Muzzle flashes lit the area like bolts of lightning. Jim’s shirt fluttered. His body jerked with each bullet. Red flowers bloomed across his chest, and then he fell backward.

Gwen ran toward him, but one of the cops jumped in her way and pointed his gun at her. He ordered her to get down. Her mind quickly computed the results of her not listening, and she hit the ground.

She craned her neck and saw the other cop approach Jim. She felt a knee in her back as the officer pinned her down and cuffed her. “Help him, please,” she cried.

Jim wasn’t moving. She called to him, but he just lay there. His head turned a little and she saw the vacant look in his eyes, and knew he was dead.

No, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. They had a plan. The sheriff was supposed to die. Gwen stiffened when she saw the sheriff talking to the deputy who had shot Jim. No, not the sheriff, the witch!

Gwen scrambled to her feet, knocked into the deputy at her side, and took off at a run for the sheriff. Pure rage had taken over. The man needed to die. She didn’t make it more than a few feet before the deputy tackled her. With a clunk to her head, she was knocked out.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Gwen sat in the worn leather chair of the common room, staring out one of the mesh-covered windows of the Hill-Mead Psychiatric Hospital. The property was garden-like on the outside, with a neatly trimmed lawn and beautiful maple and oak trees. A cobblestone walkway wound around the yard, wooden plank benches set along it. Gwen focused on nothing in particular.

A game show blared from the television that hung in the far corner of the common room. The large hall was filled with tables and chairs, where patients could sit and draw or play board games or drool.

The monotonous sound of a ping-pong ball bouncing back and forth echoed in Gwen’s ears as people played. She wished she could stuff cotton in her ears or go over to the television and turn the volume way up, but the thing was locked in a mesh cage. Burly-looking guards in white uniforms stood by the main doors, keeping a watchful eye on the patients of the hospital.

Gwen had been here for a little over two months. She was first bound to a bed, given a high dose of tranquilizers and other drugs to keep her stable and quiet. Eventually, she was allowed to have a room and joined the more stable residents, the ones she was around now.

Gwen closed her eyes, feeling the sun’s warmth on her face. She was wearing a thin, white gown with bra and panties underneath. Tan slippers covered her feet. She was quite comfortable physically, but emotionally she was a wreck. She knew what had happened on the island, but of course no one believed her. Because of her state of mind, her ramblings about a witch, her lunatic-like state, the judge had ordered her to the psychiatric hospital until it could be determined that she was able to stand trial for her part in the disappearances of her friends—the bodies never found—and her part in the attempted murder of Sheriff Montgomery.

No one had listened to her, writing her off as a druggie, but when no narcotics were found in her system, she was deemed unstable. She and Jim had killed their friends and hidden their bodies. She was questioned for hours initially, but her story remained the same—that the witch had killed them all and absorbed their bodies.

Gwen still couldn’t believe this had all happened, and on some level, was waiting to wake from the nightmare. The drugs she was currently taking helped with keeping her calm. Her head was a little foggy at times, but she welcomed the whole experience. She was trapped where she was, unable to leave. And depending on what happened when she was fit to stand trial, she might never see the outside world again. Her lawyer told her that they had no bodies, which was a good thing.
Fucking lawyers,
she had thought.

“Gwen?” a tender voice said from behind her, breaking her from her thoughts. She turned and saw the nurse, with her pushcart of goodies, coming toward her. “Time for your meds.” She held out a small, clear plastic cup filled with blue, green and red pills of varying shapes and sizes. They looked so pretty.

The plump woman held out the cup for Gwen to take.

Gwen reached out, and took the pills, wanting them, for they made her troubles seem much less upsetting. A news report came over the television. She paused as the plastic rim of the cup touched her bottom lip.

It was being reported that a number of Salisbury Mills residents had been found murdered, shot to death. Others were missing from their homes. Sheriff Frank Montgomery’s body was found in one of the houses, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. It was being speculated that he was involved in the murders.

Gwen stared at the television screen, mouth agape. Her heart pounded, her adrenaline overpowering the meds she’d taken two hours earlier, still coursing through her system. She lowered her hand that was holding the cup of pills and two spilled out and bounced across the cold tile floor.

“Dear,” the nurse said, “you dropped your pills.” She huffed, and looked to see what Gwen was staring at, then waved a hand in front of Gwen’s face. “Hello?”

Gwen ignored her and glanced down at the cup in her hand. She shook her head, cringed, then tossed the cup away.

The nurse scowled, putting her hands on her hips and said, “That wasn’t very nice, now was it?”

Gwen sprang from her seated position and shoved the woman aside. “I was right,” she shouted, pointing at the television. “You see? I was fucking right! It was the witch! She killed them all. She’s real, as real as you and me!” Gwen ran around the room, twirling with glee, shouting over and over that she was right, and that the witch was real.

She kicked over tables and chairs, trays with food and medication on them. Along with the two men guarding the doors, more entered, and quickly brought Gwen to a stop. She kicked and screamed, demanding she be let free. She was right and they were wrong, and they looked more foolish than ever.

But all Gwen received was a needle in the arm.

Gwen came to in a small, padded white room. She knew the place well, having spent time here when she first arrived and her meds were still getting sorted out. The rubber room, as some called it. Her arms were tightly strapped in and wrapped around her mid-section, courtesy of the straightjacket she was wearing. Regardless, she was able to sit up and lean against the cushiony wall. She’d spent hours struggling against the binds when she had first been introduced to the jacket, now realizing it was useless to do so. She hated the thing, but didn’t mind the room so much. If only they’d thrown her inside it without the jacket. As a kid, she would have loved the place, and bounced around endlessly in it until she was tired and fell asleep.

Sitting against the wall, she grinned. The room was bright, quiet and peaceful, but more than that, everyone would have to believe her now. She had told them the sheriff was possessed. They’d say he had simply gone off the deep end, flipped out. That’s what they’d say, but in the back of their minds, they’d hear Gwen’s words, remember the legend and wonder if it was true. “Maybe that crazy girl was right,” they’d say.

Now, they’d want to talk to her about the island. They’d come to her for help, and listen to her story, as she had wanted to tell it. She would like to tell them to go screw themselves, and give them the finger, but she wouldn’t do any of that, at least not initially. Because more than rubbing it in their faces, she wanted to leave this hellhole and be free, so she saw herself cooperating fully.

The door to the room opened, and Doctor Goldman entered. He was a thin man, with circular spectacles and graying hair.

“Hello, Gwen,” he said, and shut the door behind him. He stared at her for a moment, smiling, but it wasn’t a kind expression.

Gwen felt her skin crawl. She’d had numerous visitations with the man since her arrival, and had always felt fine. So why was her internal warning system going off? She was anxious. There was something odd about the way the man was looking at her, almost predatory. He tilted his head like a dog watching its owner cook up a steak.

“You’ve been a naughty girl, haven’t you?” he said, taking a step toward her.

Gwen shrank back, unable to take her eyes from him.

“But you’re feeling better now, yes?” he asked.

She nodded, feeling her chest ache. “Y-yes, much.”

“Let’s get you out of that thing, shall we?” The doctor came forward and helped her up. He unbuckled the clasps and slid the jacket off. Gwen didn’t like this one bit. There was always an orderly present whenever the doctor was around and she wasn’t restrained. Did the man believe her? Was he setting her free already?

Dr. Goldman stepped back, holding the jacket in his right hand. “You were correct about the sheriff. He was possessed.”

Gwen felt as if the air had been sucked from the room. Sure, she would be believed that Sheriff Montgomery had gone crazy and was homicidal, but possessed? No, and definitely not by her doctor.

“You look confused, dear,” the doctor said.

She put a trembling hand to her lips. She already knew the answer, but had to ask. “Why do you think he was possessed?”

The doctor dropped the straightjacket and slid his hand into his white coat pocket and withdrew a scalpel. “Isn’t it obvious? I possessed him.”

Gwen’s eyes popped from their sockets. She flattened herself against the padded wall, shivering. As much as she wanted to believe it wasn’t happening, it was—the witch was inside the doctor, controlling him. She glanced down at the scalpel in his hand, then back up to his face.

“I was going to kill you,” he said, “but knowing what I know now, I’ve decided it’ll be much more fun keeping you locked up in here.”

Gwen watched in horror as the doctor stuck himself in the side of the neck with the scalpel and ran the surgical-steel tool across his throat to the other side. She screamed as blood blasted forth, covering her from head to toe. Her palate registered the tangy, coppery taste and she nearly puked. The doctor fell to his knees, smiling, as if he was the happiest man on earth.

Then the man’s smiled vanished, replaced by terror. He pawed at his throat, eyes begging for answers. Gwen saw the air shimmer around him, then around the room. The witch had left his body. Gwen’s flesh felt the heat from the witch’s spirit. She watched her transparent form swirl through the air before shooting toward her. She put up her arms in a defensive effort to block the attack, but it proved useless.

Gwen’s forearms burned with heat. The witch was inside her now. She bolted for the door, not knowing what else to do. It wouldn’t open. The heat was spreading up her arms, over her chest and into her head. She screamed, but it was only in her head, her lips no longer under her control. The pain was unbearable, and she could’ve sworn she was on fire, yet she saw no flames.

She walked over to the doctor. The man wasn’t moving, his eyes staring at nothing. Blood leaked around his head and upper body, settling into pools where the cushiony squares of the floor met. She squatted and pulled the scalpel from the man’s neck. Holding the weapon out in front of her, she felt the witch admiring it. The intense heat had died down within her, though it was still warm.

She reached out and pulled on the right eyelid of the doctor, stretching out the skin, then slowly, carefully, sliced it free. Gwen had tried not to watch, but saw what the witch saw. She wanted to throw up, but the sensation was all in her mind, or at least the part that was still hers.

The witch held the dangling, bloody piece of delicate flesh between her fingers, then arched her head back, opened her mouth, and dropped it in.

Gwen’s stomach churned as the witch chewed the rubbery morsel. She thought she was going to go insane and die right there, but nothing happened, except feeling the bits of skin slide down her gullet.

The witch repeated the process with the man’s other lid, then scooped out the eyeballs one at a time and ate them. From there, she plunged the scalpel’s blade into the man’s forehead and cut a deep line down and around his chin, coming back up the other side of his face, connecting the incision. Using her fingers, she pulled back on a portion of the severed skin, then worked to free more from the skull, and peeled off his face.